I settled onto the rug, my back against a carved pillar, facing the fire but intensely aware of every small move she made behind me. I heard her take a tentative step toward the bed, then stop. The silence stretched. She was a wild thing, and I had just offered her a den. She would circle it a hundred times before she dared to rest.
It did not matter. I had time.
Chapter 8
Kael
Sleep, when it finally came, was a heavy, dreamless thing. For the first few hours, I lay rigid in the center of the enormous bed, lost in a sea of furs that smelled of him—that scent of leather, cold stone, and something wild I couldn't name. The sheer size of the bed was an insult to every miserable cot I’d ever slept on. It was a bed for a king, and I was a prisoner rattling around in its vastness. The dagger he had given me was a cold, solid weight under the pillow, the only thing that felt real. My mind raced, trying to make sense of the new rules of this game. He’d offered a vow, a courtship. I’d been armed for a battle, not a political negotiation, and the shift had left me exhausted and raw. Eventually, my body, pushed past its limits, simply gave up and dragged my mind under.
I woke with the sun. Pale golden light filtered through a high smoke-hole in the longhouse roof, cutting a path through the hazy, quiet air. My first,instinctual reaction was to check my surroundings, a habit beaten into me by years of sleeping in rooms full of men who were not my friends. And my eyes landed on him.
He was still on the bearskin rug before the hearth, the embers of the fire glowing softly beside him. He lay on his back, one arm thrown over his head, the other resting on his stomach. In sleep, the hard, brutal lines of the general’s face were softened. He looked younger, the weight of his command temporarily lifted. A low, rhythmic rumble escaped his lips—he was snoring. A deep, resonant sound like rocks tumbling in a slow-motion landslide. He was not a monster in this moment. He was just… a man. A very large man, asleep on the floor of his own home because he had given his bed to his captive.
And he was very, very obviously male.
The thick fur blanket he’d pulled over himself had shifted, and the leather of his breeches was strained taut over a massive ridge. A morning erection of truly heroic proportions. My first thought was a purely clinical, soldier’s assessment: logistical impossibility. A quiet, hysterical part of my brain started doing the math, and it simply didn't add up. How in the sevenhells would that fit inside a human woman? I’d heard the crude barracks jokes about Orcs, of course, but I’d always dismissed them as the same kind of posturing bravado I heard every day. Seeing the reality, even in this context, was… sobering. Those hybrid children I’d seen in the village suddenly seemed like a biological miracle.
I pushed the thought away, a hot flush creeping up my neck. Dwelling on the mechanics of my potential ravishment was not a productive use of my time. He was asleep. I was awake. And I was hungry.
I slipped from the bed, my bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. I clutched the dagger, its familiar weight a comfort, and crept from the sleeping alcove. The main hall of the longhouse was vast and quiet in the morning light. I moved through it, a ghost in his oversized tunic, and found the cooking area near the back.
It was, like everything else, built on a larger scale. A huge stone hearth dominated the space, with a collection of heavy iron pots, griddles, and cauldrons hanging from hooks. Sacks of flour, oats, and dried beans were neatly stacked against one wall. Smoked sausages, hams, and fowl hung from the rafters. Therewere crates of root vegetables—potatoes, turnips, carrots—and baskets of hard-shelled squash. It was a well-stocked larder, the stores of a clan that did not fear the coming winter. Their diet wasn’t so different from ours, I realized. Just… more. So much more. It took a mountain of fuel to keep a mountain of a man like him moving.
I found a side of cured bacon, a basket of eggs—large, speckled eggs from some kind of mountain bird—and a sack of coarse-ground flour. My stomach growled, a loud, embarrassing noise in the quiet. I could make something just for myself. Eat quickly, retreat back to the bed, and wait for him to wake. It was the smart move. The survivor’s move.
But he had given me a bed. He had given me a weapon. He had given me his word. These were not the actions of the "mindless beasts" from the stories. They were the actions of a man operating by a code of honor I didn't yet understand. A gesture for a gesture. It wasn’t kindness. It was strategy. A small offering of peace to maintain the fragile truce we found ourselves in. I had agreed to this arrangement. I may as well act like it.
Decided, I set to work. I stoked the embers in the hearth back to life, added fresh wood, and set a heavy iron griddle over the flames to heat. I sliced thick slabs of bacon and laid them on the hot iron, the sizzle and pop loud in the quiet hall. I found a bowl and mixed a simple batter for flatbreads, my movements practiced and efficient. It was strange. After five years of hiding who I was, the simple, domestic act of cooking felt both alien and achingly familiar.
The smell of the frying bacon filled the longhouse. I was just turning the meat when I heard a rustling from the main hall. I looked over my shoulder and saw him sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his face. He blinked, his gaze sweeping the room until it landed on me, standing by his hearth, cooking his food.
And he smiled.
It wasn't a smirk or a conqueror's grin of satisfaction. It was a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his dark eyes, crinkling the corners. It transformed his harsh, brutal features into something else entirely. Something… handsome. The sight was so unexpected, so disarming, that I almost dropped the fork.
“Good morning,” he rumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He stood, stretching his massive frame, his joints popping audibly. The sheer power in that simple movement made my breath catch.
“Morning,” I managed, my voice a croak. I quickly turned my attention back to the griddle, my heart hammering for a reason I refused to analyze.
By the time he had washed his face in a basin of cold water, I had a platter piled high with fried bacon, a stack of flatbreads, and a half-dozen fried eggs. I set it on the large wooden table near the hearth. He sat, and I took the seat opposite him, a chasm of scarred wood between us. The dagger was still tucked into the makeshift belt I’d made for the tunic. He saw it but said nothing.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. He ate three pieces of bacon for every one of mine, his appetite as immense as the rest of him. The small talk, when it came, was awkward, stilted.
“The flatbread is good,” he said, tearing a piece in half.
“It’s just flour and water,” I replied, staring at my plate.
“My mother usually makes porridge. It tastes like wet dirt.”
I risked a glance at him. Another hint of that smile played on his lips. I found myself fighting a smile of my own. “It’s hard to make porridge that doesn’t.”
The silence settled again, but it felt different now. Less tense. I knew I had to ask. I had to understand. I couldn't live in this strange new world without knowing its rules.
“Why?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He stopped, a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth. He looked at me, his expression turning serious. “Why what?”
“Why us?” I clarified, meeting his gaze. “Why human women? In the village… I saw children. Hybrids. This isn’t a new thing.”
